


show a little more (show a little less)

by isuilde



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot, and sakyo, burlesque costume, elements of D/s kind of???, knee-jerk reaction on omi’s burlesque costume obviously, leathers and laces, very briefly appearing but also yuki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23651359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: Yuki rolls his eyes. “I’d leave you to your fantasies but you’re the scriptwriter and I need to run this by you, so get your mind out of the gutter, now. Laces or fishnets?”Tsuzuru looks down at the sketch. “Leather?”“Obviously.”“Is this—are you including a choker?”“No, it’s just a belt clasp. Focus, Villager C; laces or fishnets?”Why are you making me choose, Tsuzuru inwardly despairs, and because he doesn’t actually know which one would destroy him less, he says tentatively, “...laces?”(or, Tsuzuru plans for sex with Omi, and gets exactly that)
Relationships: Fushimi Omi/Minagi Tsuzuru
Comments: 10
Kudos: 94





	show a little more (show a little less)

**Author's Note:**

> I would just like to list my defenses on why this happened:
> 
> 1\. Fushimi Omi in leathers and laces  
> 2\. My friends are terrible enablers who blame No. 1 on Tsuzuru  
> 3\. Nishiyama Koutarou once implied maaayyybee Tsuzuru’s a perv  
> 4\. I haven’t written anything for Tsuzuru’s birthday anyway so why not let him get banged  
> 5\. Fushimi Omi in LEATHERS AND LACES ahem
> 
> I apologize in advance because. It wasn’t supposed to be long. And. I suck at writing p0rn and I’m not sure why I did this to myself. This is terrible. Let that be your warning. Thank you.

Two days after Tsuzuru hands the burlesque-themed play script, Yuki snags him aside and makes him stumble along to the balcony, then shoves a half-finished design at him with the three characters of Omi’s name on the paper. Without preamble, the high-schooler says, “Lace or fishnets?”

Tsuzuru’s looks down at the sketch and says “guh,” because his brain promptly short-circuits. 

Yuki crosses his arms, expression serious. “I was thinking fishnets but I wasn’t sure if he’ll accidentally rip it just by moving, so the other alternative is lace. Thighs and arms—I’m thinking maybe leave his abs completely exposed. Maybe also heels.”

Tsuzuru opens his mouth. Thinks of Omi’s thighs in laces, and then fishnets. Then Yuki smacks him on the arm lightly with a sketchbook. “Villager C, it’s still broad daylight.”

“It looks like a stripper—“ Tsuzuru says faintly, face burning, and Yuki smacks him on the arm again. “Ow! Sorry, sheesh, it’s just, uh.”

Yuki rolls his eyes. “I’d leave you to your fantasies but you’re the scriptwriter and I need to run this by you, so get your mind out of the gutter, now. Laces or fishnets?”

Tsuzuru looks down at the sketch. “Leather?”

“Obviously.”

“Is this—are you including a choker?”

“No, it’s just a belt clasp. Focus, Villager C; laces or fishnets?”

 _Why are you making me choose_ , Tsuzuru inwardly despairs, and because he doesn’t actually know which one would destroy him less, he says tentatively, “...laces?”

The look Yuki gives him feels very judgmental. “Hmm. I see. You’re actually quite a pervert huh.”

Tsuzuru splutters, tries to take back the paper when Yuki snatches it off his hands, but Yuki breezily waves him off and strides back into the dorm with a short, amused laugh. Tsuzuru stares emptily at the general direction Yuki had gone, and thinks, leathers and laces.

His face burns as he takes out his phone and starts googling affordable dry cleaning services.

**——-o0o——-**

Omi’s eyes are dark.

 _Dangerous_ , the farthest part of Tsuzuru’s mind whispers, but it’s too hazy, too faint. It wisps away as Omi’s teeth closes over Tsuzuru’s collarbone and his hips grind firmly against Tsuzuru’s. The first syllable of Omi’s name that escapes Tsuzuru’s lips disappears into the dark, short strands on Omi’s nape—the rest of the syllables never made it past Tsuzuru’s throat, killed by the pleasure coursing through his body.

He feels Omi’s chuckle rather than hears it—when he captures it with his own lips, he thinks it tastes better than the lava cake Omi had made for desserts last weekend. 

Omi’s legs hit the bed and they both stumble and fall onto it: Tsuzuru in-between Omi’s legs, Omi’s arms a cage around him, fingers trailing shivers down Tsuzuru’s naked back, teasingly playing with the waistband of his briefs. There’s a slightly smug look in Omi’s eyes as he tugs on Tsuzuru’s hair gently, forcing Tsuzuru to lift his head and meet his gaze. “Is this why you wrote a burlesque-themed play?”

Tsuzuru forgets to breathe. “Maybe.”

“What do you want, Tsuzuru?”

It’s not a lulling siren call. It’s nothing but heat and dark invitation of an incubus. Tsuzuru lets his body slide up against Omi’s, teeth finding the end of the leather clasp over Omi’s neck to tug it loose. Omi tilts his head back further, bares his neck once the clasp opens to reveal skin, and Tsuzuru’s lips follow the line of muscles up to the line of Omi’s jaw, down to the patch of skin where Omi’s pulse flutters beneath the tip of his tongue.

“Ngghh...”

He isn’t sure whose noise that is, when he sinks his teeth into skin gently, worrying it in tandem with the pulse beneath. Omi’s finger drags his briefs down, leather gloved touch ghosts over his hole, down the inside of his thighs, and Tsuzuru shivers.

Omi’s eyes are dark. _Dangerous_ , his instinct warns, but the promise held in that gaze is enough to reel Tsuzuru back in—fingers splayed over leather stretched across Omi’s chest, teeth closing over the zipper and pulling it down-down-down, and when he lifts his head up, Omi’s gloved hand finds his jaw, holds it in place, and a thumb rests on the corner of Tsuzuru’s mouth.

“Tsuzuru.”

There’s something about Omi’s voice and the smell of leather that just clicks—that sets off something on the back of Tsuzuru’s head. He lets the thumb in, welcomes it with his tongue, follows it as it runs over the roof of his mouth, the back of his teeth, the glands under his tongue. He bites on the leather, makes a disappointed noise as Omi’s finger wriggle free and out of his mouth, pulling away from Tsuzuru and leaving the glove dangles in-between his teeth.

Omi’s smile is close to wicked.

“Good boy.”

**——-o0o——-**

“Hypothetically,” Tsuzuru says to Sakyo as the older man places the night’s movie disc into the DVD player. It’s one of the absurd B-movies tonight. “If I accidentally ruined a costume, how much do I have to pay back to the company?”

Sakyo doesn’t bat an eye. Tsuzuru thinks this is what an adult composure is. Or perhaps Sakyo just trusts him enough to never make that hypothetical situation reality, in which case Tsuzuru regrets that he’s have to disappoint him. “Twice the total price for the materials used.”

“Okay,” Tsuzuru nods. “Can I have it cut from my next paycheck?”

That gets him a rather terrifying look. “You said hypothetical.”

Tsuzuru raises both his hands, laughing nervously. “Just in case,” he mumbles, and thank the gods that the movie intro begins just in time to drown the words away from Sakyo’s ears. He watches Sakyo settles down on the other couch as the movie starts, then pulls his phone out to text one of his part-time job coworkers.

_You still want me to cover for you this month?_

**——-o0o——-**

Omi’s cock twitches under the constraints of the leather pants as Tsuzuru runs his tongue over outline of its balls. Tangled in-between his fingers is the lace over Omi’s left thigh—he’s tugged it undone, and Omi has retaliated with moving his fingers inside Tsuzuru’s ass deeper, drawing an embarrassingly high-pitched keen from Tsuzuru.

“Omi-sa....nnn—“

“Keep your hands where they are.” Omi’s free hand finds the back of Tsuzuru’s head, fingers threading gently through sand-colored strands, a fascinating contrast with the ruthless fingers buried and scissoring within Tsuzuru’s ass. Tsuzuru groans against Omi’s pelvic, pushing against the fingers because he needs more—of the delicious friction, the heat, the haze of pleasure. He wants what’s beneath the leather; the slick skin, the heavy heat of Omi’s cock, the semen dampening the leather—all of them a teasing promise only visible by the lines, like skeletons of a plot bunny at four in the morning. 

“What do you want, Tsuzuru?”

It’s fascinating, how gentle the words sound when it’s nothing but a warning: _I’ll take and take and take everything of you_ , and something in Tsuzuru’s chest leaps at the thought. He whines, tugs at the leather with his teeth until Omi finally lets go of his head and unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his pants and lets it open just enough to free his cock from the constraints of leather, and Tsuzuru doesn’t wait anymore.

“Nnnn—ahh, Tsuzuru—“

“Mmm—“ it feels nice, the solid hardness of Omi’s cock against his tongue, the weight and heat of it as Tsuzuru takes in more of it. Omi’s fingers tangle in his hair the way his fingers are in the laces of Omi’s thighs, a gentle stroke that Tsuzuru recognizes as a warning, before it turns into a locking grip that holds Tsuzuru’s head in place as Omi’s hips thrust up. Tsuzuru’s throat constricts for a moment, a forefinger hooked on the hem of Omi’s leather pants hanging on almost desperately, pulling the half-undone thigh laces as he tries to breathe and fails and—

“Tsuzuru—“ Omi pants, cock hitting the back of Tsuzuru’s throat, and for a moment, Tsuzuru feels like drowning in the familiar scent of Omi—of sweat and sex and the faintest hint of kitchen smoke—and he swallows, throat working to accept Omi’s now familiar length, and that’s when Omi decides to be a multitasking master and curls his fingers deep.

Everything goes white with pleasure for a second. Tsuzuru chokes around Omi’s cock, a groan drawn from the very depth of his throat, and Omi’s hips buck up. Heat coiling almost unbearably in his stomach, Tsuzuru pushes back against Omi’s fingers, chasing the heat even as he fails to breathe around the heavy cock in his throat. He keens, pleading, hears Omi laugh, takes the next thrust and lets is silence his plea, and loses his breath again when the fingers hits deep. He’s going to come like this—untouched and filled up with Omi from the front and back, with the smell of sex and leather and everything that is inherently Omi, and Tsuzuru—

Omi’s fingers slip out of his ass. Tsuzuru whines, almost sobs in disappointment, and feels the gentle tug at his hair, once. Twice, then the grip yanks him upwards, Omi’s cock sliding out of his throat, his mouth, and he manages to cough out a half-formed “no—“ before Omi hauls him up for a ravenous kiss.

The thigh lace in-between Tsuzuru’s fingers trail away. Tsuzuru scrabbles at the Omi’s leather jacket in a futile attempet to find a grip, except everything is slick with sweat and spit and sex until his fingers finally hook on the arm laces. Omi pauses, pulls away from the kiss with an amused look, and carves the question against the corner of Tsuzuru’s mouth: “What about the laces?”

Tsuzuru tilts his head, finds Omi’s lips again, and tries to coax Omi’s tongue back into his mouth, except Omi seems to be more interested worrying the bottom of Tsuzuru’s lip with his teeth. “Nnnn—aaahh, Omi-saaann—“

Fingers tugging at the laces. Sneaking under them, mapping the skin beneath. Omi grins against Tsuzuru’s lips, one hand pushing itself into the brown strands of Tsuzuru’s hair and rests his wrist against Tsuzuru’s jaw. “Take it off.”

It sounds like an order. Tsuzuru knows it’s a spell, because he feels a little like dying if he doesn’t tilt his head and follows the loose end of the lace knot at the base of Omi’s wrist. He feels Omi cock slide between his asscheeks, tenses in anticipation, and takes the lace in-between his teeth.

He pulls it undone, and Omi’s cock pushes in.

**——-o0o——-**

“You’re working late night shift the entire weekend, huh.”

The words sound light, but Tsuzuru’s learned to recognize how Omi sounds when he’s carefully trying to not sound disappointed. He places the last bowl he’s dried onto the counter, and watches Omi busying himself wiping down the stove. There’s something calming in watching Omi move in the kitchen—his bulk shifting in the small space between the fridge and the stove counter without knocking a single thing off, the way he somehow fits in the corner of the kitchen or the way he easily plucks things off the topmost shelf. The comfortable way he holds himself that seems to spell how much Omi belongs in the kitchen. 

“I asked the Owner to give me more shifts this month, so,” Tsuzuru pauses, glances guiltily at the calendar to see the weekend marked in green. This weekend was supposed to be his turn to cook dinner. “I’m sorry you’d have to cook on weekends too, Fushimi-san.”

“You know I don’t mind,” Omi smiles, reaching out to ruffle Tsuzuru’s hair. “I was just wondering why. We haven’t really had time to spend together, lately. I have rehearsals too, I guess.”

“Uhh,” Tsuzuru says, and thinks, dry cleaning bill, hotel fee, paying back the costume in case he ruins it. “It’s honestly not that important. I just need to save up a bit more, before the play.”

Omi tilts his head curiously. His finger trails down Tsuzuru’s sidebangs, curls the strands around his forefinger. “Before the play?”

Leathers and laces, Tsuzuru remembers, and feels his cheeks heat up. “After the play, uh, I mean. The weekend after. Can you free up the weekend after, Fushimi-san? I’ll—take care of the arrangements...so....”

He trails off, face burning, until Omi’s hand cups over his right cheek. The scant space between them closes with a soft kiss on the tip of Tsuzuru’s nose, breaths mingling together as their foreheads press.

“Okay. I’ll keep it free for you.”

Each syllable kisses him softly. When Tsuzuru finally tilts his head to meet Omi’s lips, their gazes meet for a moment, and what he sees makes him smile.

Omi looks happy.

**——-o0o——-**

“Ngh, nghh—“

“Don’t drop it,” Omi murmurs, his words liquid fire against Tsuzuru’s collarbone. His hips rock steadily, hard enough to send delicious gasps out of Tsuzuru lips—the now undone, loose end of the lace on his right arm dangling temptingly between Tsuzuru’s teeth. He trails a finger down Tsuzuru’s spine, earns himself a helpless whine as he thrusts up again, chasing the gripping heat of pleasure that is Tsuzuru. “Keep it. Good.”

His hand skitters over Tsuzuru’s cock, still untouched, and Tsuzuru’s spine goes rigid. He slams back up, listening to the way Tsuzuru’s breath catches over a groan, savors the way Tsuzuru tightens around his cock. Tsuzuru’s fingers slip off his shoulder, unable to find a grip on the slick leather, and catches on again on the arm laces, trailing all the way down to Omi’s wrist before going back up his shoulder, as if mapping the lace’s pattern on his skin. 

“....mi-san...Omi...san...nnn—“

It’s all delicious heat, gripping him tight as Tsuzuru pants in his ear, and something inside him almost growls, _mine_ . _Mine, mine, mine,_ and Omi’s free arm winds around Tsuzuru’s hips, keeping him in place as he thrusts up hard to the rhythm of the hazy growl inside. _Mine, mine, mine_.

Tsuzuru pushes back, hips chasing Omi’s own and meets his thrusts in a familiar cadence that’s not unlike their pulses—each breath that catches in Tsuzuru’s throat for each snap of Omi’s hips, each keen that reverberates in the scant space between them for each time Tsuzuru ruts against Omi’s stomach. The heat builds—pools with pleasure in the bottom of his stomach so thickly that he loses his rhythm several times in an almost fevered rush, and yet Tsuzuru answers: hole sucking Omi’s cock in greedily, tightening deliciously, fingers pulling at the laces and teeth still stubbornly clamped over the loose end of the lace, molten desire in his eyes and nothing but _wantwantwant_ in the noises he makes. 

Ah, Omi needs to kiss him.

“Tsuzu—nnnn, Tsuzuru—“

His lips follow the lace, stretching from his wrist to where it disappears into the corner of Tsuzuru’s mouth, and claims Tsuzuru’s lips in a fevered kiss. _Mine_ , the silent voice says, satisfied, and Omi buries his hand into Tsuzuru’s hair, tongue searching deep, and pulls Tsuzuru down with a sharp thrust.

Tsuzuru comes with a groan that he swallows, muscles rigid within Omi’s arms as his hips loses control completely. Omi forgets to breathe as the heat engulfs him entirely—tight and slick and god, _the friction_ —and the pleasure pooling in his stomach lets go, bursting inside Tsuzuru in warm, thick spurts.

He pants a harsh laugh against Tsuzuru’s cheek. “Good job,” he whispers, lips curling in a satisfied smile as Tsuzuru whines. “More?”

“Nnn,” Tsuzuru tugs, brings Omi’s hand down and carefully straddles it, half-hard cock against the lace crisscrossing over Omi’s hand, Omi’s palm snug under his ass. He pants, forehead resting on Omi’s shoulder, sweat slick on leather.

Omi pauses. “Tsuzuru...?”

“Like this,” Tsuzuru murmurs, breath catching as he starts to move, hole clenching still around Omi’s cock, his own cock sliding over the laces. “Omi-san, Omi-san—ah, ah—“

Omi’s hand twists under Tsuzuru’s ass, a finger slipping in almost too easily, and Tsuzuru sobs. A smile curves over Omi’s lips. He leans in, presses a kiss on the side of Tsuzuru’s head, and says, “Go on.”

The night is still long, after all.

**——-o0o——-**

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I told you it was terrible ha h a
> 
> (note to self: what the actual FUCK isu)


End file.
